Addicted
by Yiji
Summary: [Harry x Draco hints] Addiction has been known to alleviate the suffering. Draco just wishes that Harry Potter would be as addicted to him as he was was to the Boy Who Lived Again.


Harry Potter is addiction personified. From the very beginning, Draco Malfoy was addicted to Harry Potter and the need for his friendship. When that offer was turned down (rather rudely, he might add), Draco became addicted to hating Harry Potter with every fibre of his being. And because of this addiction, he had been reduced to watching the object of his antipathy the entire time at school. Perfecting his sneer to a patented touch, he was keen to the daily misery he brought about in the Boy Who Lived.

Draco Malfoy was an addict, true. He was drawn to many things easily. Money, power, control- anything he wanted, he always got. But not Harry Potter, or his precious friendship. That golden opportunity had been bestowed upon a Weasel and a Mudblood, and it didn't even leave a good taste in his mouth at all.

So Draco went into withdrawal instead, convinced he didn't have an addiction.

Sitting on the ruined balustrade of the west wing of the former Hogwarts Castle, Malfoy leaned his chin on his hand and gazed over at the ruins, smirking humourlessly at himself. The war had hit the school the hardest, most of it having been demolished by the seemingly-insurmountable wave of Death Eaters. Of course, having refused the Dark Mark earlier that year had made him a target as well. Of course, his father had been furious with him, but he didn't care about petty things like that anymore. He'll be damned if anybody- even the Dark Lord Himself- was going to use _him_ as a pawn. Draco Malfoy belonged to nobody except Draco Malfoy... and perchance one Harry Potter, but it wasn't likely that _that_ would happen anytime soon.

So the war had been fought and finally won, but it had taken a heavy toll on both sides. Potter, of course, in his usual hero-style, had taken out the Dark Lord Himself, and was now labelled the Boy Who Lived Again by the entire, adoring wizarding world.

Big fucking whoop.

Nearly half of the school had been wiped out by the war. Buildings and students alike. The few that remained in any sort of sane or healthy semblance were huddled together under one united house, the crest of Hogwarts itself. Classes, dwindled to meagre numbers, resumed as normal, as though the war had even happened. Fat chance of forgetting, with half the student population dead.

He almost felt sorry for Potter. The conflict had taken away everything that he had cared for anymore. Dumbledore was gone, so were the Weasel and the Mudblood, and innumerable friends and acquaintances of his. He was only one of the few in his house still remaining. Gryffindor had been the worst hit, since that was the house that had plunged itself into the foray of the war head-on.

Bloody Gryffindor pride.

Thumbing his wand, scratched deep in places from the fighting he had contributed to- yes, he had fought on the side of the Order- Draco was startled by a shuffling noise on the far end of the ruins. He gripped his wand, ready for another attack, when the lone figure came into eyesight.

Potter.

Pocketing his wand, Draco quietly shifted behind the half-collapsed stone wall and watched the figure walk on slowly. He had not seen the Great Harry Potter shed a single tear before, during or after the war. Not even when the entire school held a great memorial for the ones lost during the battle. No, Potter had kept an expressionless mask tied to his face, and had continued his days in an almost haze, as though hardly daring the truth to be believed.

Draco Malfoy did not like the new Harry Potter, the post-war Harry that he was stuck with now. Being one of the fewer remaining seventh-years meant that Harry was constantly in his face. And when Draco would cast a jibe or an insult at Harry, hoping to incite a reaction- any reaction- from him, all Harry would do is turn to him with an impassive face, the light gone from his emerald eyes, stare at him for a long, silent time, and turn away.

Just like that, Harry Potter's fire had died, while the fire of Draco's addiction was fuelled.

His Slytherin side wanted to call out to the lone figure, jeer at his stupidity, mock him, taunt him, insult him, do _something_ spiteful to him. Instead, he kept hidden and watched as the young man walked onwards, slow, shuffled steps that carried him from one end of the ruined castle to the other. Harry reached the stone wall, the extremity of the ruins, and stood motionless for what seemed an age, his hand pressed against the crumbling stone. Draco's sharp eyes just made out the hand, callused and scarred from the duels, trembling against the rock.

A choked sound punctured the silence, and Draco almost fell off the balustrade in shock when he realised that Potter was the one who had made the sound. Staring, he watched as Harry unfurled before his eyes. Sharp hisses turned to choked sobs, before angry grunts gave way to screams. Harry yelled furiously, balling his hands into fists, before punching the stone in front of him with all the energy in his body. Repeatedly, the raven-haired youth struck at the rock wall, the harsh 'thud' of each blow hitting Draco's eardrums, as the Boy Who Lived Again scratched and tore away at his knuckles, leaving trails of skin and blood on the stone that refused to give way under his blows.

After what seemed like an eternity of futile punching, Harry grated his nails against the rocky surface, screeching his frustration and anger, before falling to his knees. Howls and screams, violent and filled with anguish, tore out of his chest, and salty tears dripped onto raw, open wounds and bruises marring his hands. Deft, nimble fingers once used in catching delicate Snitches with the precision only Seekers could obtain, that had killed and wounded innumerable foes. Hands that could not- should have, would have, but could not- save his friends and loved ones. Salt mixed with copper tang on the harsh, stone floor, and Harry Potter cried and craved pain, because that is what he deserved for letting his friends die.

Draco said nothing. Instead, he silently slipped off his sitting position and made his way back to the small part of the castle that was not in ruins, the place he called home, without being seen. He looked back only once, and the sight of Harry Potter kneeling in ruins, his body basked the red colour of blood from the setting sun, made him wish the Sorting Hat had placed him in Gryffindor instead.

The next morning, Harry Potter, the Saviour of the wizarding world, arrived at breakfast with his hands bandaged. He refused to let Madam Pomfrey tend to his hands, and during class he was barely able to hold a quill. And yet, he continued about his day without complaints, the pain in his hands barely registering onto his face. Draco took that opportunity to pull him into a deserted corridor and punch him across the face, hard. And when Harry Potter, the verdant fire shining bright in his eyes, punched back and cracked him across the jaw so hard that he saw stars, Draco Malfoy thought it was a small price to pay to illicit a reaction from him. Their secret rendezvous of physical violence having become more frequent and silent, they scuffled deeper into the shadows of the corridor and let fly.

Fourteen punches, two kicks and a few knees in the belly later, Harry Potter picked himself up off the ground, face bruised and nose bleeding, and offered Draco a hand up- as usual. Dusting off imaginary dust from his pants legs, he gave Draco a curt nod of the head, muttered 'Malfoy' with all the politeness of a gentleman and stalked off, his face a continued mask of silence and apathy, but his gaze intense.

Draco craved each and every one of their silent encounters, and would no doubt fantasize about this afternoon again in his sleep. He would allow his face to heal, of course, Malfoy pride withstanding, but he would prod at the bruises on his skin in the privacy of the showers, keeping the marks that _he_ had made on his body for as long as possible.

Not that he was addicted to Harry Potter, or the way that the taste of tears and blood reminded him of the Boy Who Lived Again bathed in sunset amongst the ruins of his life.

He was just waiting for the day that Harry Potter would become addicted to him, too.


End file.
